


Beautiful Mess

by Glamidala



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Baker Eddie Kasprak, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Toronto Losers Au, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24262753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glamidala/pseuds/Glamidala
Summary: Or, 5 times Eddie cleans up Richie's mess, and one time Richie cleans up his
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 7
Kudos: 102





	Beautiful Mess

**Author's Note:**

> Another story from the Toronto Losers Club au! 
> 
> We have a twitter for this au! It's @LosersInTO

1

Eddie finishes pouring the foam into the cappuccino cup and slides it gently across the counter to Richie, who accepts it gratefully, cradling it with both hands.

“Thanks Spaghetti.” He raises it to his lips and takes a long sip. “Fuck, that’s good.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “You know, we get a lot of kids in here. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t piss off parents with your language.”

Richie snorts out a laugh, almost choking on his coffee before placing the cup down on the counter. “As if you’re any better! I was here the day you dropped that entire egg carton on the floor, remember?” That had  _ not  _ been a good day for Eddie. 

He could argue about the far worse things he’s heard come out of Richie’s trashmouth, but Richie’s got cappuccino foam all over the end of his nose, and  _ fuck _ , if that’s not the cutest thing Eddie’s ever seen. He grabs the tea towel hanging out of his apron pocket and reaches across the counter with it. 

“C’mere, you’ve go—just c’mere,” he cups his hand on Richie’s jaw. Richie freezes.

“Uh…Eds? Whatcha doin’ there buddy?”

“I swear, every time I see you, you make some kind of mess.” He dabs gently with the corner of the towel. He can feel Richie’s breath against his hand, warm and gentle, like he’s trying not to breathe too hard. Eddie finishes, and inspects his work, still so close.  _ Too close _ , he thinks, and moves back to his place behind the counter and begins absently scrubbing it, even though it’s already impeccably clean. Richie’s watching him, warm smile playing on his lips, the one that lets Eddie know he thinks he’s about to say something hilarious.

“Aw, Eds, thanks for keeping my pretty face clean! But you know I don’t mind it dirty sometimes,” he winks salaciously. Eddie rolls his eyes. 

  
  


2

"Hey, Spagheds! What's this called again?"

"Paczki. Don't talk with your mouth full, that's so gross."

Richie takes a second to swallow before repeating the word, slowly, as if he's trying to feel the consonants on his tongue. "Pac-zki…so it's like a doughnut?"

Eddie shrugs. "Essentially. It's the recipe my grandma brought with her from Poland. She used to make them for me but I didn't have them for years because my mom had a lot of hangups about food and what I was allowed to eat." If his face darkens for a moment, Richie pretends not to notice. "I started making them a couple years ago, just at home, but I thought they might go over well with customers."

Another bite, remembering to swallow before he talks so he isn't reprimanded again. 

"Well, as your best and most frequent customer—" he gestured grandly with the pastry in his hand, "—I give it an A+! Ah, shit, I just got powdered sugar all over me!" He set down the paczki on his little plate and raised his hand to wipe at his shirt.

"Wait!" Eddie rounds the corner of the counter. "There's a trick to it. If you do that you're just going to rub it in and make it worse." He bats Richie's hand out of the way and pinches the fabric of the shirt between his fingers, pulling and releasing a few times as it billows like an extremely bright, tacky sail, sugar puffing into a little cloud. 

Richie looks down at where Eddie's fingers are still gripping his shirt.

"Huh. That's handy." His hands retreat to his pockets, almost burning from the closeness, from touching Richie's chest. Eddie realizes that he's blushing and immediately wants to cover his face, but he feels like if he draws any more attention to the hands that were touching Richie mere seconds ago, he will literally burst into flame.

"You know, aprons are only mandatory for staff, but I'm starting to think you should have one on at all times."

Richie grins and bounces his eyebrows a few times.

"At ALL times, Spaghetti?"

His fists clench in his pockets.

"You know what I mean."

3

“So most people usually just spread it on, but I prefer to use the icing bags so I have a bit more control, and it doesn’t become a huge mess of frosting.” Eddie squeezes gently, rotating his wrist ever so slightly, creating a zig-zag of frosting that dribbles over the side of the cinnamon bun. Richie watches his hands, deft fingers around the thin plastic tube.

“I don’t know Eds, I definitely like making a mess with my frosting.” When he winks, Richie’s other eye closes a bit too, so really it just looks like a weird blink, like he’s trying not to sneeze. It’s endearing, which is unfair, Eddie’s trying to focus!

He hands the piping bag to Richie, rolling his eyes. “That’s so fucking gross. I should never let you in my kitchen ever again.” He fills a second bag for himself, and slides a tray of buns in front of Richie so he can start icing them. “Just do what I showed you.”

Richie’s technique is…actually pretty good. They aren’t perfect, but when he told Eddie he wanted to learn how to make something so he could help out on boring days, Eddie specifically chose cinnamon buns because they’re supposed to be messy; they’re sticky and sugary and sweet— _ and just like Richie— _ Eddie pushes the thought from his head and dutifully goes back to drizzling as evenly and carefully as he can.

“Hey Eddie Spaghetti, do you ever just, like, eat the frosting?” 

Eddie visibly cringes, and glares at Richie. “Fuck, no! That's so sweet! Besides, I’m not wasting stuff I have to sell!”

“You said I could take my batch home, so,-” Richie shrugs and raises his piping bag above his head, leaning back dramatically and squeezing it so the frosting will fall into his mouth, and completely misses. Thick globs of it land on his shirt, slowly running down his chest at a molasses pace.

“Ah,  _ fuck _ !”

“This is why I have told you  _ MULTIPLE TIMES  _ to wear an apron!” Eddie snaps, and starts tugging at the hem of his shirt. “Take this off.”

Richie’s eyes go wide and his jaw just about hits the floor. 

“ _ WHAT? _ ”

“We’ve got a washing machine in the back room, give me your shirt.”

He peels it gingerly over his head, trying to avoid making an even bigger mess, and hands it to Eddie. “Okay, but what am I supposed to wear now? Was this just a ploy to get me topless?” He brings his hands up to cover his nipples, pretending to be scandalized.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because I knew you would do something that stupid, I planned it all. I’ll get you a shirt to borrow.”

“I…I don’t think we’re exactly the same size, Eds…”

“You think? I’m gonna go grab one from Ben downstairs. He keeps a few spares around in case he gets ink on them. Which he  _ doesn’t _ , because he  _ also wears an apron! _ ” 

He walks to the back and Richie calls after him, “make sure you wash that on the delicate cycle, that’s vintage Crash Test Dummies, I’ve had it since I went to their concert in the 90’s!” Eddie flips him off over his shoulder.

Eddie loads the laundry, adding in some hand towels and aprons he’s been saving so they could do a full load. His fingers twitch as he holds Richie’s shirt, remembering the soft curving lines of his body, thinking about the slight give of his belly when he’d pulled at it; maybe he was a little too eager to get him out of it—no, Eddie just doesn’t like mess, there was no ulterior motive, of course not. But the shirt is warm like Richie, and he wonders what it would be like to be held against that chest, to curl into it. 

He slams the washer door and heads downstairs to Ben’s tattoo parlour, taking the steps two at a time, and grabs a soft, black t-shirt—leaving a note for Ben since he isn’t in yet, but he’s told Eddie before to feel free to borrow what he needs—before practically sprinting back up the stairs and holding the shirt out to Richie, averting his gaze.

“Will you wear the damn apron now?”

Richie grins at him, already tying it around his waist.

“Anything for you, Eds.”

4

  
  


Eddie fiddles with his tie for what feels like the 800th time. Was he overdressed for their first date? Not that it’s really a first date, since they’ve been dancing around each other for months, and they’ve already kissed about four times (and god, Eddie hopes it happens again tonight), but this is the first official date; the first proper dressing up and getting dinner in a restaurant date.

Richie had been the one to ask him, not that Eddie hadn’t been planning on asking; he’d just been…busy…or at the very least driving himself crazy by trying to overanalyze what those four kisses had meant. But Richie had asked him before he could make himself be brave enough to, so it worked out in the end.

He’d shown up at the little apartment attached to the record store to find Richie wearing a blazer and a pair of jeans that weren’t actually ripped (so maybe the tie wasn't overkill, in comparison), and they’d walked down one of the Kensington side streets until they came to a little Italian place that Eddie had passed many times on his way to work but had never had the chance to investigate.

It was good. The tables were small and close together, so his knee was constantly knocking against Richie’s, but warm crackle from the pizza ovens and low lighting made it feel cozy rather than cramped, and Richie smiling at him across the table made his heart beat just a little bit faster. They’d both ordered pizza, the thin crust delicate enough that Eddie could easily eat it with his knife and fork to prevent mess, but Richie had just folded his slices in half and ate it like a sandwich, and Eddie would  _ not _ admit that he found him attractive even when he was doing that.

Now they have reached dessert, and he’s watching as Richie reads the menu, tongue poking out from between his teeth while he’s deep in thought, until he drops it gracelessly to the table.

“What are you getting, Spaghetti?”

Eddie snaps his eyes back to the menu in hand, cheeks turning red in a way he hopes Richie won’t notice in this light (he does, of course he does, Richie seems to notice everything).

“I mean, the tiramisu looks good, but I don’t think I could actually eat that much.” He feels Richie’s foot nudging his under the table.

“That’s what two spoons are for, babe.” He’s looking up at Eddie from under his lashes and Eddie can almost feel the figurative smoke coming out of his ears. He orders as quickly as possible, and tries to ignore the smile on their waitress’s face when he inquires about extra utensils.

He watches Richie as he eats, wondering how they’re already almost done from the amount of time he’s spent talking instead of actually putting food in his mouth; gesturing wildly, fork in hand when there’s a sudden wet  _ splat _ .

“Ah, fuck, my pants!”

Eddie’s already out of his seat, fabric napkin in hand, and reaching across to Richie’s lap, trying to mop up the tiramisu before it can soak into the denim.

“Eds…”

“It shouldn’t stain, but you gotta try and clean it up right away

“Eds wait!”

“If it doesn’t come out with regular detergent I can give you the number for my dry cleaners, they’re really good with this kind of thing…”

“Eddie,  _ stop _ !” Richie’s voice is high and tense, and Eddie suddenly realizes he’s been rubbing his crotch, maybe a little more firmly than necessary.

“Oh my god….oh fuck, Rich, I’m so sorry, I just wanted to…”

Richie’s laugh sounds tight in his throat. “It’s ok, I know…I just thought we’d wait until at least date three before we…talked about dry cleaning,” he winks. “I  _ was _ trying to be gentlemanly, but if you’re that into the condition of my pants, maybe at least wait until we leave the restaurant.”

Eddie’s jaw just about hits the floor, and Richie is doubling over with laughter

“I’m kidding, Spaghetti! Don’t freak out!”

He knew that; of course he was kidding! But deep down Eddie wishes he wasn’t, just for a second.

5

Richie’s standing behind him, leaning against the counter—that will have to be wiped down before any customers come in—as Eddie finishes his latest creation. “Try this—” and he holds an eclair up to Richie’s lips, who leans forward and takes a bite.

“Did you put jam in this one?”

Eddie nods.

“Strawberry.”

Richie takes it from his hand and puts on his serious face, contemplating.

“You know this is basically just a glorified twinkie, right?”

Eddie turns almost purple as he sputters “w- _ what? _ Are you  _ SERIOUS? _ Those things are pure chemicals, this is  _ NOTHING _ like a twi—I can’t even say the  _ name _ without feeling  _ sick! _ ”

He’s cut off by Richie laughing so hard he sounds like he might cry. 

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding! Well, sort of kidding—HEY!” Richie jumps back as Eddie snaps a tea towel at him, still wheezing. “No, I’m sorry babe, it's really good! The jam is super good with the chocolate and the whipped cream.” He presses a kiss to Eddie’s temple, who may no longer be purple, but that definitely turns him tomato red. “Can I eat the whole thing?”

A gentle shove at his chest, “No Richie, I was gonna sell your half-eaten eclair to a customer.” Eddie rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning, cheeks still burning from a simple kiss.

Richie shoves the rest in his mouth as Eddie watches, horrified. He’s got eclair filling at the corner of his mouth, but doesn’t seem to notice as he licks the last bit of chocolate off his thumb. Eddie’s about to reach out with the towel to wipe it away, but his hand stops and changes his course, coming up to cup Richie’s jaw.

Richie leans down obediently, and he closes the space between them, licking gently at his lips, tasting the strawberry jam and whipped cream and  _ Richie Richie Richie _ , cleaning him off with his tongue—which isn’t really cleaning at all, but that’s not what Eddie’s focusing on right now—and kissing him deep. One hand comes up to tangle in Richie's hair, holding him close, and he smiles against his mouth at the tiny sounds he makes when he gives it a little tug. 

And then the front door chimes go off, and someone cleans their throat politely. Eddie pulls away fast and turns his attention to the door, seeing Ben standing there, blushing to the tips of his ears. He clears his throat again, and speaks.

“Ah, sorry. I’ve got a client downstairs who’s a little lightheaded, wanted to make sure she got some sugar in her system. Can I grab a couple cookies?”

It takes a second for Eddie to register what he’s saying, but then he nods. “Yeah! Yeah, of course!” He uses the tongs to put a couple sugar cookies in a paper bag—little lemon bunnies with vanilla icing and bright, colourful sprinkles; Easter is soon—and hands it across the counter to Ben, who takes it from him and heads to the door with a sheepish wave. “Thanks!”

Eddie feels Richie’s hands sneaking around his waist, pulling him flush against his broad chest, soft and warm. 

“So what did you think?”

Eddie blinks, still a little dazed.

“Hmm?”

“Of the eclairs, Eds, what did you think?”

“Oh! Yeah…tasted good. Really good.”

He feels the breath from Richie’s laugh against his cheek, and receives a kiss on his neck, soft and warm.

6

Eddie gasps as Richie drags his teeth along the tight muscle of his neck, feeling the roughness of his stubble against his throat. They’re on the edge of the bed in Richie’s little apartment over his record store, trying to touch every inch of skin that they can. He can still taste Richie on his tongue from when he got on his knees and sucked him off, before he pulled him onto the bed and to kiss him. His hand is over Eddie’s holding on tightly while they jerk his cock together

“Ah, Richie,  _ fuck! _ ” Their hands are slick with Eddie’s precome, moving hard and fast, drawing little sounds out of him as Richie sucks at his collarbone hard enough to bruise. It’s been a while since someone has touched him like this, he knows he isn’t going to last much longer.

“Rich, Richie, I’m close!” 

The wet warmth of his mouth leaves Eddie’s skin, and suddenly Richie is on the ground in front of him, between his knees with his mouth open, his tongue out.

“Come for me, Eddie baby, do it.”

Eddie’s hand speeds up on his cock, staring down at Richie, unable to close his eyes, to look away, until he feels something like electricity in his spine, and he’s coming, white stripes across Richie’s tongue and cheek, and all over his own hand.

Mostly on his hand really; he’s made a fucking mess, and he can’t help but feel a little gross staring down at his fingers. Richie takes a hold of his wrist and gently brings the hand up to his mouth.

“Richie, what are you—oh my  _ god _ !” and Richie's sucking on his fingers, lapping at them and cleaning Eddie’s come off them, and it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his entire life. It’s like the oxygen has been sucked out of the room and he has to remember to  _ breathe _ .

Richie sits back on his heels when he’s finished, pressing a soft kiss to Eddie’s palm and smiling up at him. There’s still come on his cheek, and Eddie swipes his thumb through it and holds it out to him, letting him suck it until it's starting to drip with his saliva-which honestly should be gross, but it’s so hot he can barely stand it.

“Christ, Richie, you’re such a mess.” and Eddie pulls him up into his arms, kissing him, tasting his come on Richie’s tongue and  _ moaning _ . Richie pulls back and laughs, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“Look who’s talking, babe.” 

**Author's Note:**

> The restaurant Eddie and Richie go to is based on Via Mercanti in Kensington Market, Toronto! If you're able to get to the area, I highly recommend it!!


End file.
